


Grasp

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel observes the changes the Mark of Cain has made in Dean. Coda to 9.17 Mother's Littler Helper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grasp

“I'm gonna take a shower. Don't go anywhere.”

Castiel nods, locking eyes with Dean before he disappears into the tiny bathroom with a click.. The sputtering shower comes to life a few seconds later.

He stands frozen and the clock ticks five times before he unsticks his feet from the carpet. There's a small round table and two chairs, the surface littered with papers and coffee cups and condensation rings from glass bottles that sit in the trash can. Not hidden, just empty.

He takes a seat on the bed instead, feeling the mattress dip and fold beneath him from age and use. Dean must have made it himself in a hurry, the do not disturb sign still swinging from the door outside. Just like he hastily shoved his sleeve down when he opened the door to let Castiel in.

The mark refuses be hidden by a shirt sleeve, no matter how durable the fabric. Dean's hand had hovered over it even when they locked eyes. It's a presence, like a third person in the room. It watches, eavesdrops, takes note of what they say. It doesn't appreciate being ignored for this long.

The shower stops with a clunk and a lurch. Minutes go by in silence. Castiel counts the stitches in the hotel bedspread.

Dean emerges, wearing jeans and a thin grey t-shirt, hair damp and sticking up in enough directions to keep Castiel's eyes occupied for centuries. He thinks of a million ways he could rearrange it, but it would always feel the same under his fingertips.

He doesn't try to hide the mark this time, striding across the room to stow his toothbrush back in his duffel bag. “Sam filled you in?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Abbadon's plan?”

“He filled me in.”

Dean makes an indiscriminate noise of assent while rummaging through his bag. “Then you know that I didn't have a choice.”

Castiel thinks about how a human would react to this statement. With denial perhaps, or by playing dumb to the insinuation. Dean's voice drips with it, and even in his post-humanity state he can't deny it.

“I still wish you hadn't taken it on,” he says in reply, standing up off the creaking bed.

“Yeah we can wish and wish Cas but this is the way things had to go. After what I did--”

“So you're punishing yourself?”

“After what I _did,_ ” he repeats, zipping the duffel closed, “I knew that I had to put an end to all this. Fix everything I broke.”

Castiel swallows hard, searching Dean's face and mourning the wrongness of it. The lines around his eyes sink deeper with his frown than ever before and his hair sits one shade darker than normal. His eyes dart around the room, shifting from the window to the door and to Castiel's coat until they settle for one moment. He looks old, and on fire.

“Why are you here, Cas?” Dean asks softly, tracing the jagged mark with the thumb of his left hand.

“To help,” he pleads, the words overused and underwhelming, but sincere.

Dean huffs, pushing past him with a shove to deposit his duffel by the door. “The Cas I knew wasn't afraid to reach inside a kid and rattle around with his soul if it meant getting answers.”

“That's not fair, Dean, that's--” He tries to ignore the heat building in his hands, the shame and anger pressing behind his eyes. “I'm ashamed of that.”

“Didn't mean you weren't right.” Dean's voice is overly throaty, almost hearty and red with alcohol and adrenaline. “Got the job done, and the kid was fine, right? Maybe I'll be too.”

“Maybe you'll be fine, Dean?” Castiel repeats. “You won't. And you know it. Right now your heart is beating too fast, your blood is too hot and you can't sit still without a bottle of alcohol in your system.

Again with a hollow laugh. “You sound like you've had the mark before, Cas.”

“I've had something similar.”

Dean sighs, planting his hands on his hips and running his hand through his hair. Almost dry now, the gesture was soft enough to almost belong to the old Dean. _His_ Dean.

He approaches him, seeing the crack and not wanting to lose it to time and the anger of the mark. He moves swiftly across the room, watching as Dean's eyes widen when he takes his arm in his hand, pressing two fingertips to the angry red mark, hushing Dean's hiss at the contact.

It's overwhelming.

First, there's only red. Red behind his eyes, sharp and erring on the orange side. Then there's pain, clean and straight from heaven's design. Screams rip through Dean's chest, though his mouth remains closed and his face appears relaxed. He smells metal with a fainter smell of alcohol, barely masking anything, barely hazing out the pain. God's own masterpiece of punishment.

“Dean.”

“Jesus fuck, Cas, warn a guy--”

“Dean.”

He looks up then, tearing his eyes away from where Castiel has his hand pressed. Castiel's own eyes swim with the pain of it all, the intensity, but feels gratification in seeing Dean's face smooth out for a moment; to see his shoulders relax from the weight being lifted. He scrambles for purchase, using Dean's other arm for leverage as his own legs threaten to buckle under him.

“Cas!”

He still hears the voice, free from its foreign throaty growl but now drenched in worry. Castiel smiles, halfway relieved.

They sink to the ground, Castiel's hand still fused to the mark on Dean's arm. Dean's own hands move over him. They grasp at his arms and tug on his coat and take hold of his face. Through the haze of anger clouding his eyes, Castiel sees Dean, face scrunched in worry but undeniably, beautifully human.

He lets his hand fall then, pulling away from the mark with a snap and jolt. He finds himself still crouched on the ground with Dean's hands grasping at his face. Castiel can make out some of the words tumbling from the other man's lips. Words like _need_ and _godfuckingdammit_ and _you can't just_ and _stupid sonofabitch_ and _don't go anywhere._

_Don't go anywhere when this wears off._

Dean's hair is still damp up close. Through the haze Castiel runs his fingers through it, changing the direction once and then twice. He likes his creation.

The hate will return to Dean's eyes, the heartiness to his voice. He'll stand up and brush himself off and walk like he's in a red fog, and Castiel will have to stay. He holds onto Dean's hair and sits still with the feeling of Dean's hands resting on his face, unhurried and anchored.

 

 


End file.
